


We Share a Common Interest

by autoeuphoric (FreezingRayne)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Grinding, Lapdance, M/M, Strip Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:17:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9371891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreezingRayne/pseuds/autoeuphoric
Summary: Yuuri lets the music fill him up, feeling Viktor’s attention prickle over his skin. The flames remind him of the sweeping lights in an exhibition skate, and Viktor’s gaze reminds him of the Grand Prix. But dancing this close--he doesn’t remember that. It’s completely new.(Yuuri and Viktor revisit the time they met)





	

**Author's Note:**

> On my tumblr I promised lapdances, and I am a man of my word. 
> 
> For reference, Yuuri dances to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ePsezcNt8Xo). 
> 
> Big thank you to both zee and marbleflan for the beta.

Yuuri isn’t sure what makes him look. Insanity, entropy, the knowledge of the inevitable heat death of the universe. Whatever.

He finds himself curled up in the center of the wide, unmade bed one blustery evening in St. Petersburg, googling “yuuri katsuki 2015 grand prix.” He quickly backtracks and tacks on ‘banquet’ at the end. He doesn’t need to see a dozen thumbnails of himself wiping out on the rink. He’s already got the memories in glorious technicolor. 

Anxiety squeezes his stomach as the results load. 

Predictably, nothing is archived on official news sites. Very little press had attended the banquet, and what with the state of the world, there are far more important things to report on than drunk figure skaters. But there are celebrity gossip blogs, figure skating fan pages, carefully curated youtube playlists. Yuuri’s face burns and he almost shuts the laptop. 

He barely recognizes himself, and not just because he’s stripped down to his shorts and wrapping his legs around Christophe Giacometti. It’s the vibrance in his eyes, the abandoned joy of drunken euphoria. Does he ever look like this on the ice? 

“Is that what I think it is?” 

Yuuri yelps and almost bounces his computer off the bed. 

Viktor leans framed in the doorway, the fading afternoon painting him into life. The tassels of his scarf are tossed and knotted from the wind, his cheeks a chilly pink. Yuuri flushes until he’s sure he’s the same color, except this is all heat, helped along by the half bottle of wine he’s consumed on an empty stomach across the last hour. 

“It’s--.” He considers closing the window, clearing the history, denying all knowledge. But Viktor had been there and, unlike Yuuri, actually retains his memories of the event. “I got curious.” 

Viktor tosses his scarf onto the desk chair, followed by his coat and gloves. The left glove doesn’t quite make it, flopping onto the carpet with two fingers outstretched to flash a peace sign at the ceiling. Yuuri rolls into the center of the bed to make room. 

They aren’t quite touching, but Yuuri can feel the outdoors coming off him. It snows in Hasetsu and falls below freezing some nights, but nothing could have prepared Yuuri for the frigid brutality of the Russian winter. Its power is so unrelenting that it almost seems to have a personality; a darkly amused monster tossing malice down from the sky. 

Viktor smells like cold wind and cigarette smoke--downtown smells--but there is still a trace of his aftershave, orange and cloves. Yuuri braces against the shock of chilly fingers as Viktor lays his hand atop his to un-pause the video. The blurry Yuuri on the screen slides down the pole and goes into a full-body roll.

A shudder ripples through Viktor. “This changed me,” he says reverently. “I finally understood what people see in strip clubs.” 

Yuuri lets out a giggling snort of simultaneous amusement and horror; a common mix of feelings since Viktor had come into his life. “I’ll tell Phichit. He’ll be so vindicated.” 

“Hmm?” Viktor’s eyes are still locked on the screen. Yuuri has another intense impulse to slam the laptop shut, even though Viktor has seen him actually naked, and having _actual_ sex, instead of simulated sex with an inanimate object. And Christophe. In front of a hundred people. 

God. He reaches for the bottle on the dresser. 

“Phichit is the one who got me to take the pole classes.” He fills his glass back up. “In Detroit. It’s great for stamina and core strength.” Yuuri has a physique that tends toward softness in the belly.

“Mm.” Viktor smiles. “I’ve always just done yoga.” 

“I hate yoga.” 

That pulls Viktor’s attention up for a moment. “Really? Why?” 

“It’s boring.” 

Viktor’s nose crinkles. “And Yuuri Katsuki requires constant thrills in his exercise routine.” 

Yuuri shoves at his shoulder. “I fall asleep!”

Viktor kisses Yuuri on the temple. “Don’t spill wine on my bed, you lush.” He plucks the glass from his fingers. When he tastes it his lips are briefly painted red before his tongue flicks out to lick them clean. Yuuri’s heart gives one very loud thump. “This is nice.” 

Yuuri rescues his glass. “It’s one of the bottles Minako gave us.” As soon as they’d announced their engagement officially, they’d been showered with gifts from friends, family, and fans. Yuuri has received some odd things in the mail, all of which Mari has been sure to unwrap and snapchat to him. So far the most embarrassing has been a bright pink butt plug, and the strangest a very small rock. 

Viktor reaches for the bottle, gaze straying back to the screen as a cheer goes up in the crowd of watchers. Yuuri’s flushes and he gets very interested in his phone. 

“I need to send Phichit a thank you card,” Viktor says, voice thickening. “What do you think he’d like? Flowers? A gift basket? Another one of those--.” He makes the noise that means he’s struggling with an English word. “--Giblets?” 

“Gerbils. And he’s got plenty. They used to eat my phone cords...” Yuuri takes another fleeting glance at the screen. 

He and Viktor have barely spoken about that night, which, god. It’s absurd, isn’t it? But at the time Yuuri’s attention had been overwhelmed by the upcoming free skate and the little matter of getting recently engaged, and then they’d fought and subsequently made up right before he went out onto the ice. Then there had been the post-tournament interviews and this year’s banquet, the phone calls home, the congratulations. It had been about twenty four hours later that the emotional fallout had finally caught up with him, and Yuuri had allowed himself to go quietly to pieces in his hotel room, shaking through the mingled pride and disappointment.

He had placed but he hadn’t won. And despite his complete confidence that Yurio deserved the victory, it still didn’t change the fact that Yuuri had been beaten by a fifteen year old skating in his first ever Grand Prix, who was never going to let him forget it. 

As for Viktor--he had taken an hour long shower and then passed out asleep, taking up three quarters of the bed with his usual impression of a starfish. He had slept for so long that Yuuri had actually put his head against his chest to feel the comforting pounding of his heart and slightly congested tug of his breaths. 

After that...well, Yuuri had been embarrassed for blacking out, Viktor for not realizing it across the year they had spent together, and there had just seemed no point in revisiting it. Why chip away at the foundations of a structure that has become so solid? 

But tonight in the purple grey of late winter with Viktor beside him, it feels possible. Inevitable. 

“You know, I had no idea,” he says carefully, watching the light tremble on the rim of his glass. “Those first few weeks I thought you were teasing me.” 

Viktor raises the bottle to his mouth, smile twitching out. “Well, you were very easy to tease.” 

Yuuri’s sure he was. Is. The perfect blend of insecurity and helpless longing. 

“I thought you just didn’t want to talk about it. Or you were embarrassed for coming on so strong.” 

“God.” A wave of heat across his face and a squirm of shame deep in his guts. “I was--was I really humping your leg?” 

“Like a horny puppy.” 

Yuuri groans. There’s only a swallow of wine left in his glass. Well, more than a swallow, but Yuuri drinks it, feeling the warmth spread, the soft, diffuse intoxication as Viktor pulls him down on the bed. 

“I liked it. I liked everything about you.” 

Yuuri kisses him, wet and full on the mouth. Then he pulls back with a coy, “Liked?” 

Viktor’s fingers, which have been sifting through Yuuri’s hair, tighten down, twist hard like he’s only been waiting for a signal. “Hmm...maybe I just need reminding of what I like.” 

Yuuri knows this script, he knows the next line. It would be so easy just to end all of this here, but he’s feeling tipsy and daring, the tinny music from the banquet video tugging at his insides, reminding him off all the shapes it can twist his body into. 

He says, “Your apartment doesn’t have a pole.” 

Viktor says, "Doesn't it?" 

Oh. Right. In the living room, slotting easily into the contemporary European decor, are three metal support poles. But even if they are made to hold up ceilings, he doubts they are designed to take the weight of fully grown figure skaters who, despite their slimmed-down physique, are pretty solid with muscle. 

Well. He can improvise. 

\--

Viktor goes to open another bottle of wine and to put away the groceries for a dinner that has now been deferred to later. Yuuri goes into the bathroom and looks at himself in the wide mirror, flushed cheeks and shiny eyes. This is a common ritual, and one that Viktor has stopped questioning. Yuuri doesn’t really know why he does it. For an anchor, maybe. To solidify the parts of him that are still a little afraid of himself. 

He is starting to realize that sort of fear never truly goes away. But it’s the sort you can learn to live with. 

Viktor is getting impatient. His voice wafts in under the door. “Yuuri!” 

“I’m coming.” He watches his reflection’s mouth form the words. “Go sit down.” 

He realizes he is pushing his hair back out of his eyes and laughs at himself. He doesn’t know if there will ever be a time he experiences competition, performance anxiety, or sex without echoes of the fatale rushing through his blood. 

He isn’t banquet-level drunk, but the wine softens his edges, quiets his thoughts as he turns off the light and pads back out into the front room. The view from the window is fantastic no matter the weather--the white roofs and domed churches, the violet maelstrom of the sky during a storm. Now it is a distant sea of lights, a fiery palace in the cold.

Viktor has brought the lights down and turned on the gas fireplace. The flames turn the room to a lair of shadows, making it seem at once larger and more intimate. Viktor sits beside the hearth, striped in its flickering glow. He makes Yuuri think of a fairytale king, a beast wearing the facsimile of a man. Not someone to cross. Certainly not someone to order around. 

“That chair won’t work,” Yuuri says. 

Viktor is sitting in the white Barcelona. Ergonomically correct, but not big or sturdy enough for Yuuri’s plans. Viktor lifts an eyebrow, but he moves to an armchair on the other side of the fireplace, taking his glass of wine with him. 

“And can you put some music on?” 

Viktor picks up his phone. “What kind?” 

“Something sexy.” 

“That’s incredibly subjective.” 

“You know what I like.” 

Viktor’s smile is crooked in the shivery light. 

Yuuri vetoes his first few choices. They’re all sexy, but not what he’s looking for. When he gets it right he feels it in his guts, a slow, building rhythm that spreads to his limbs. The singer’s English is accented so he can’t quite parse the words, but they have a tension. The angry edge he’s looking for. 

“Perfect.” 

Viktor sets his phone down. “Now will you please tell me what--.” 

Yuuri rolls his hips and Viktor’s voice boils over and steams away. 

Yuuri lets the music fill him up, feeling Viktor’s attention prickle over his skin. The flames remind him of the sweeping lights in an exhibition skate, and Viktor’s gaze reminds him of the Grand Prix. But dancing this close--he doesn’t remember that. It’s completely new. 

“Yuuri.” 

He plants his hands on the chair’s arms and lets the beat move through him in a hard pulse. “Don’t touch me.” 

Viktor's hands are an inch from wrapping around his hips, but he obeys. It _thrills_ through Yuuri. “Are you--.” 

He puts a finger against Viktor’s mouth. Even in the dark he can see color hit his cheeks, the burn in his eyes as he sweeps them over Yuuri’s body. “What’s the occasion?” he asks quietly. 

“I don’t know. It’s Thursday?” Yuuri clenches his abs, holding himself away from Viktor as he moves to the music. “I want to?” 

He has never given or received a lapdance before (unless you count some awkward drunken grinding with Phichit at a friend’s bachelor party) but he knows the basic mechanics. He’s a good dancer. And he knows what Viktor likes. 

Yuuri is in a pair of soft leggings and a cable-knit sweater--lazy day clothes. He leans backward enough to pull the sweater off by the collar, slowly, revealing his stomach inch by inch. His face heats and part of himself cannot believe he’s doing this, but the alcohol, music, and shocked thrill in Viktor’s eyes make him bold. 

He tosses the sweater over his shoulder and Viktor laughs breathlessly. Yuuri’s leggings go next, a slightly awkward shimmy in time with the music to get them down his legs, revealing striped briefs. He leans in again and lets himself roll with the beat. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but Viktor makes another broken sound so he figures it’s working out regardless. 

“God, Yuuri.” Viktor’s chuckle is deep and grinding. “This--this is doing things to me.” 

“Good.” He’s in his lap now, which he isn’t sure is strictly stripper procedure, but fuck it. Like so many things between them, this is half reality, half performance. Part of him is a dancer in a seedy club downtown, chosen to service the most handsome client any of them have ever seen, and the other part is just Yuuri Katsuki awkwardly grinding his boner against his boyfriend’s abdomen. Viktor is watching him like he is more than the sum of these parts. 

“At the banquet.” Yuuri swallows, feeling drunk and absurd and riding this wave as far as it can take him. “--When you first saw me. What were you thinking about?” 

Viktor’s laugh vibrates in his chest. “I think that’s pretty obvious.” 

Yuuri maneuvers backward to put a little space between them, turning slowly around, knowing exactly where Viktor’s eyes are going. “Tell me anyway.” 

“Does _don’t touch me_ apply to slapping your butt?” Viktor sounds mildly breathless as Yuuri bends down to touch the floor, ass in the air. 

“Tell me,” Yuuri repeats, heat sparking inside him. The bridge of the song surges as he spins slowly back, settling in Viktor’s lap again. Viktor clears his throat. He raises his glass to his mouth, but Yuuri intercepts it, drinking it down in two swallows. He’s going to regret this tomorrow morning but right now he doesn’t care. “ _Tell me_.” 

Viktor tips his head up. “Well, at first I was impressed there was someone who could keep up with Chris--.” 

Yuuri chuckles.

“--And then I couldn’t believe how gorgeous you were, that there was actually something worth watching happening at one of these banquets. I thought about touching you. I wanted to put my hands all over you while we danced. Yuuri--.” 

Yuuri pushes against Viktor’s chest, dragging his fingers over his nipples and past his sternum. “What else?” he whispers. 

Viktor’s fists curl and uncurl on the chair’s arms. “I-I don’t know.” A burst of shuddery Russian. “Everything. Anything. It’s a blur, I was drinking too--.” 

Yuuri’s dance has turned into a grind, just rocking his hips in little aborted gyrations. “Then make something up,” he says against Viktor’s neck. 

His pulse bounces. “You just want me to talk dirty to you? I thought I was the one being entertained here.” 

Yuuri traces the pads of his fingers over the tendons in Viktor’s neck, across his jaw, along his high cheekbones. The architecture of him. “Guess you’ll just have to complain to the manager.” 

“Hmm.” His eyes are colorless in the dark. “You want me to tell you all the things I wanted to do to you in front of everyone at that banquet? I know that sort of thing turns you on. Being watched.” 

Yuuri’s breath sticks. He’s weightless, limbs filled with helium. Distantly, he realizes the song has ended and he is dancing to nothing but the hiss of the fire and the whispery sigh of wind, but it doesn’t matter. He’s got the rhythm inside him now. 

“You like it too,” he says. 

“Being watched?” 

“Watching.” 

Viktor’s nails squeak against the grain of the upholstery. “Of course I do. I’m your coach. I can never take my eyes off you.” 

“You--.” Yuuri keels forward and catches himself against Viktor’s chest. He’s blazing hot through his shirt, and Yuuri is suddenly desperate to feel his skin. This was supposed to be a show, but he’s drunk and turned on and just _wants_ too much.

“Yuuri--.” 

Viktor’s control snaps when Yuuri yanks at the collar of his shirt. He pulls him down, tipping his head back to press hot kisses to his throat, painting a wet trail to his mouth. His fingers smooth up and down Yuuri’s spine, then dip down to cup his ass and squeeze. “You’re irresistible,” he says, followed by something else in Russian that Yuuri doesn’t understand but likes to imagine is filthy. Viktor snaps the elastic on his shorts. It doesn’t hurt, but Yuuri still groans and arches his back. 

Viktor’s eyes devour him, and even if it’s hard to internalize in daily life or inhabit off the ice, right now he _feels_ it. Feels irresistible. 

He says, “So why bother resisting?”

**Author's Note:**

> Yuuri "if you're gonna do the thing then do it" Katsuki 
> 
> autoeuphoric on tumblr!


End file.
